transcendence
by nechoco kitty
Summary: It's hot, it's summer, and Sakura Haruno finds herself fascinated by Sai's skin. /plot-less HS AU/
1. ghostly

_fix'd_

.

He is pale. Skin white, almost translucent. You imagine that – if you could just stare hard enough – you'd be able to see the map of his veins, his arteries; be able to see what kept him alive and— _but was he even?— _breathing.

You wonder if he turns pink in the sun, like strawberry ice cream or like raw meat. Maybe he peels after too much exposure, sheds his skin like an insect does its exoskeleton and is born anew. Maybe that's it.

You don't notice you're staring until he brings it to your attention.

"What are you staring at, Ugly?" His voice is dull, empty of emotional markers in a way only he can get away with. Sasuke tries, but the most he can do is affected boredom. (There is only a difference because you decide there is).

You don't bother feeling offended, just say, "Don't you ever go outside?" Think that, while curiosity killed the cat, maybe you'll survive.

He quirks his brows, confused, and opens his mouth to speak, but then—

"Haruno!" You blink, startled. Looking around, you start to realize that this is probably not the first time your _sensei_ has called your name. The whole class is staring and, maybe, at another time you'd feel embarrassed, but... _It's too hot._

_Sensei_ gestures towards the pool, a non-verbal _you know what to do_. You nod in affirmation, pull on your swim cap.

The air smells like sunblock and chlorine and summer.

You hold your breath and dive in.

.

.

.

**ahn~** Don't even ask. ( Well, ok, since you asked so _nicely~_ )

I mourned the end of onemanga by reading some _Naruto,_ and then some Naruto fanfiction.

ff(dot)net, I am disappoint at the lack of Sakura/Karin. And, also? It's, like ridick hard to find decent SaiSaku while we're at it. D:

but, yeah, don't even ask where this came from. idek


	2. discordant

As far as you are concerned, she is silly and simple-minded. Shallow, even.

Intelligence doesn't necessarily equate with emotional maturity. You know this better than most.

She is not mature.

.

Instead she is prone and quick to anger. The reasons behind her outburts are inconsequential; they have happened without rhyme or reason, like dry lightning.

**( **she will set the world ablaze **)**

.

When she is happy, she laughs. Guffaws, mostly. Throws her head back and shakes with mirth and the noise clanks out of her in discordant harmony. Like someone banging on a keyboard and producing a tune on accident.

You'd like to trace the line of her throat in characoal, sketch her out with thready lines that don't quite connect.

.

But only that.


	3. downfall

_downfall_

.

It happens in the middle of your walk home.

Gray skies and dark clouds give way to rain. Drizzling-mizzling at first—and then harder and harder until you're soaked to the bone.

**(** oh, idioms. how perfectly quaint. **)**

Clothes rendered useless, cling to skin like another layer of it.

You wonder what kind of picture you make in your wet tank top and wet short-shorts, the way each step you make in your trainers gives off a suctiony _squish-slosh-squish_ sound. Your straightish hair waves and curls in the humidity, tangling with itself. Maybe they're deploying the buddy-system.

It makes about as much sense as summer rain, or anything else that's been going through your mind lately.

You make your way to shelter: a blazing white gazebo in the middle of the park. You think about your cousin's wedding there four years ago, and how much you hated it. How the "Persian rose" in the dress clashed horribly with your hair, or how the cloth bunched unattractively at your lack-of-breasts.

That was when you decided: _No more bridesmaid_.

You jog up the steps, scratching idly at the memory of itchy tulle. It's nice to be out of the way of the pelting rain, you think, though there's nothing wrong with the rain itself. Getting wet is kind of liberating.

.

**(** this is the part where Naruto would laugh

and maybe you would have, too,

if you were twelve insead of

seventeen** )**

.

You lean against a wooden pole—a weathered off-white and chipping paint—and close your eyes. Breathe in the air that's heavy with promise.

When you open them again, _he_ is standing there. Pale as a ghost and dressed in dark, somber colors that are damp and pressed into his person. He seems ethereal in the too-bright sunlight and humid air, like you're looking through those soft lenses that you learned about in Film Studies; and wonder if that—maybe—makes you the Bogart to his Diedrich.

The thought makes you quirk your head in consideration while he stares at you blankly. You think of how well he hides his emotions and wonder if maybe-just-maybe curiosity counts.

.

.

The rain stops and the moment passes—has forever passed already? Or was it only a moment.

You don't know and he leaves before you can ask; you contemplate the depth of silence.


End file.
